


a painting i once knew

by rubycrowned



Series: a painting i once knew [1]
Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Complete, M/M, terminal illness fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is louis' starlight boy; louis lights up harry's dark. a story about what happens when harry's light begins to fade</p>
            </blockquote>





	a painting i once knew

**Author's Note:**

> a lourry au oneshot.
> 
> thank you so much to chloe, madi and sharon for helping out with this xx
> 
> if you go to the other 'part' of this series you'll find the playlist for the fic

“You look good, babe.”

Louis’ voice echoes in the harsh, square-edged room.

“I feel good.”

Harry’s reply feels foreign to his own ears, perplexed by this simple statement of fact.

“Well. That’s good, then.”

And when did ‘good’ become their only possible, only safe descriptor?

Harry watches Louis shift, hand reaching out by reflex, instinctively extending to twist into unruly curls in that soothing gesture made familiar over years, stretched out behind them like paving stones where before them lies only unfathomable terrain.

His hand stops before it meets Harry’s scalp, though. Louis cups his palm around Harry’s jaw instead, stroking gentle; dry skin catches with a quiet rasp on the pad of his thumb.

It’s not right, brings the sheer _wrong_ into stark relief. Harry only realizes he’s trembling because he knows Louis’ arm is steady in front of him.

“Hush, Harry. Please, Haz,” Louis tries to console him.

“Please don’t cry.”

“I just don’t get it,” he chokes. There are no tears; Harry wonders if those have been wrung dry from him too.

“I feel _good_.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Louis questions hopelessly, desperately, wanting to understand.

“I just don’t get it,” he repeats, pale fingers twisting together and apart, together and apart, puzzle pieces that won’t fit, won’t provide the answers Harry needs.

“How can I feel good, feel well, feel _fine_? How can I feel like going outside, sleeping in the warmth of the sun, kissing you until we forget our own names, _living._ ”

A single teardrop falls onto the blanketed space between them.

Harry’s eyes are still dry.

“Why do I feel like _living_ when I’m supposed to be _dying_?”

***

A more arse-backward example of a double date Harry has never witnessed, nor does he ever wish to revisit.

“Everybody, this is Louis,” Liam introduces with a happy grin on his face, directed at Zayn, “Louis, this is Zayn. And Harry.”

Harry would usually have been put off by the way that Liam tacked his name on, almost as an afterthought. Or the little frown that accompanied it, a darting glance from Zayn to Harry and back again before Liam remembered himself and moved to join them at the table of the university’s somewhat respectable pizzeria.

Harry's instead too busy trying to figure out (being distracted by) the boy taking a seat opposite him. He can’t quite work it out at that moment, what it is about him, but there's something preternaturally enchanting about him, some addictive, magnetic property that's almost frustrating to Harry in its ability to fixate him.

And, when Louis opens his mouth just a moment later, Harry is sure that his face must show some sign of irritation, so torn is he between wanting to hate this guy, on principle, and being completely enthralled by every anecdote that leaves his mouth.

And wondering exactly what said mouth would taste like.

Harry, _usually_ , would be feeling bad about that.

Harry would usually, indeed, be put off by _all_ of these things on any other date.

Fortunately, it isn’t.

 

Zayn had burst into the flat on Tuesday and informed Harry under no uncertain terms that they were going out Friday night.

“Sweet, we can try that new place that’s opened back where-”

“No. We’re going out. On a date. You’re my date.”

Zayn’s eyes were maybe a little the wrong side of crazy and- was he panting? Had Zayn been _running_?

“Why?”

“Because Liam...”

Harry might’ve stopped listening there. _Because Liam_. Some third year Zayn met in his 204 lit class this semester and has gone kinda crazy over. Zayn doesn’t _do_ crazy. Which is why Harry never tires of poking fun at him; smirking when he gets out of bed thirty minutes early on Mondays and Wednesdays before the 8am lecture can begin without him. It’s hilarious watching a half-asleep Zayn attempt to use toothpaste to style his hair instead of the tube of gel next to it.

Except Zayn’s insanity doesn’t usually directly affect Harry, which makes him less impressed with this situation (although, _okay_ , he’s kind of intrigued to watch the two of them interact in person; he thinks he’d feel a bit like David Attenborough).

“...and he sounded genuinely _happy_ when he suggested that maybe we could double then, because he’d _love to meet you_.”

Harry doesn’t know how Zayn managed to get to that point and he’s not sure he wants to, but it seems like something is expected of him now. Advice, maybe.

“Do I have to?”

Proper sage counsel, Harry is.

“Yes.”

“Why can’t Niall go?” Their mate from first year, who repeatedly tried to let himself into their room with the wrong key, drunk off his face at three in the morning, would usually be up for anything.

“Um, maybe because Niall’s so straight he can barely sit down and also he’d last all of about thirty seconds before he cracked up laughing?”

Fair points, unfortunately.

“You’re paying.”

“Fifty, fifty.”

“No fucking way.”

“Fine. But you’re driving us.”

 

Which is why Harry doesn’t feel bad _at all_ when, an hour later, Harry learns that Louis tastes mostly of whipped cream and chocolate.

(At least, he does after just finishing a piece of decadent looking brownie which he refused to share with anyone, despite Harry’s protests.)

They’re crowded up in the beat-up backseat of Harry’s old Ford Escort, who had, in a very gentlemanly manner, offered to drive the sorry bastard home after he declared maybe the entire brownie had been too much for him after all. As he winked at Harry out of sight of the others.

Bloody drama students.

(Turns out Liam and Louis have lived together as _very_ platonic flatmates ever since they dormed together in the first year of uni and Louis had been dragged out as Liam’s ‘date’ when Liam had managed to fuck up the supposedly simple task of asking Zayn ‘Are you seeing anyone?’.

They both lament over their mates being equally useless for a moment, but then Louis’ hand slips further up Harry’s thigh and, really, neither could care less about Zayn and Liam’s ineptitude when clearly Harry and Louis have got sorted in one night what they couldn’t in months.)

***

“Did you know there’s this thing out there that's so huge it _literally_ breaks the laws of physics?”

“This thing? So eloquent, Haz.”

“Shut up, I forgot what it’s called is all. Large Quasimodo?”

“Does it have a hunchback?”

“ _4 billion_ lightyearsacross _,_ Louis _._ ” Harry perseveres, despite Louis laughing at him across the console, “Doesn’t it make you feel small?”

“ _A mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam_ ,” Louis muses, and Harry knows from his tone that he’s quoting something, someone, but his brain can’t place it.

Sounds about right though, he thinks, as he looks out at the view before him.

Galaxies and nebulae, asteroids and mysteries and stars upon stars upon stars. Planets which defy belief – the one which shines like literal diamond, or the ice cube that forever burns but never melts.

Everywhere Harry turns; magic.

The impossible.

And he gets to experience it all with Louis by his side; thousands of light years from Earth and yet he never has to leave his home.

“What is your absolute favourite place we’ve been,” he asks one night.

“Out of all the oh-so-many intergalactic adventures we’ve had, my astronaut love?” Louis replies, a grin in his voice.

“ _Yes_ , you twat.”

“Oh. Well since you asked so nicely- _Oi!_ ” Louis swats away Harry’s knobbly fingers poking his side, punishment for his sarcasm, “I don’t know _why_ , what with you being such a rude prick, but I still love the sight of you at the edge of the Milky Way. The lights were so bright, and they were all on you; I reckon you might just be my sun.”

“Bit incestuous don’t you think?”

This time it’s Louis who lunges at Harry, pokes him under the ribs, cursing a storm of ‘ _sun you pillock,_ sun, _I was calling you a goddamn star, you asswipe, you just see if I ever try to say anything fucking nice about you again’,_ until tears are streaming down Harry’s face with laughter and he’s struggling to draw a breath and suddenly Louis is holding him close to his chest. He holds him like he might break as he chants a soft ‘ _breathe, Harry, you can do it, just breathe, babe’_.

Harry wants to tell him it’s nothing, he’s amazing, he’s brilliant, because he’s strong and whole, but it’s not his fault that he’s ticklish, so he speaks into Louis’ shoulder.

“I think I liked that shooting star we caught a ride on the best. The real one.”

“Hmm?” Louis murmurs into his neck. “How come?”

“Because it comes from the destruction of something amazing, and causes something even more beautiful; the black hole might only spit out half the star – its pair might be lost - but the result is still incredible. The end doesn’t have to be the end.”

Louis breathes deeply into Harry’s neck, almost as if he could inhale him, or the memory, or both.

 

Later, with the infinite stars surrounding them, Louis whispers into the endless dark.

“I’m scared you’re going to disappear one day, rocket off by yourself or just blink out of sight; leave a black hole in your place to swallow me whole.”

“I’d never,” Harry promises fervently, turning in bed to find Louis’ face, to anchor himself so he doesn’t do just that.

Their hands find each other in the darkness.

“Just, if you do,” Louis cuts off Harry’s noises of protest, “leave me some stardust to light my way back to you?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Lou,” he repeats, and the fingers squeezing his tighten, “but I promise.”

And it’s the echo of Louis’ sleepy mumble - ‘ _my starlight boy’ -_ which lulls Harry off to sleep.

***

“Rule number one,” Harry says seriously, tapping his index finger firmly against the blanket covering his legs for emphasis, “nothing is _good_ , nothing is simply _fine_.”

“And why not? They’re perfectly goo- _adequate_ descriptors, aren’t they?” Louis questions, and he’s smiling; Harry knows he doesn’t really understand what this means to him, how much he loathes the words.

“They’re the only words I ever hear anymore; you’re doing _fine_ , it’s a _good_ option,” Harry explains, needs him to get it if this can work. “They’re words which are cautious, safe; used when you don’t want to make any promises you can’t keep.”

“Harry...”

“That’s not what this is about.”

Three weeks, umpteen tests, a simultaneous course of radical radiotherapy and chemotherapy already behind him. Another combined course to come and god knows how long to go.

Already Harry is utterly sick of the four walls caging him in.

He can’t leave the room, wander the wards like some of the other patients he sees through the rectangle of glass in his door.

They say his white cell count is too low – neutropenia they call it; he’s at too high a risk of infection to be exposed to all the germs which inhabit a hospital ward.

Instead, he sits in his special positive pressure room. His A-level physics knowledge tells him (useful for the first time ever) this means that, whenever his door is opened, the air from his room will rush to escape to the lower pressure of the corridor, effectively stopping any contaminated air reaching Harry.

Instead, he watches and waits for his nurse, doctor, Louis, his friends and family, to wash their hands, disinfect any equipment which might have touched another, infected patient, pump a handful of that horrid alcohol gel into their hands just to be certain, and then finally let themselves into Harry’s little prison.

And he knows it’s for his own good, knows he needs to stay and do as he’s told if he’s to stand any chance of leaving without coming back five minutes later with a raging infection, with the cancer which is bloating his bone marrow with sluggish, useless cells leaving him weak and equally useless once more.

But he’s sick of it, would rather be anywhere but here.

So he proposes to Louis (informs him) that they try a new game. One where they may do anything, be anyone, anywhere. As long as they aren’t here. As long as they aren’t sick.

“Rule number two; it’s always you and me, against the world or with it, but always together,” Harry continues.

“Well that’s a given babe; where else would I be?”

Louis smiles indulgently, and Harry looks out the window, where he can see  the trees down below; their branches almost devoid of leaves now, golden offerings scattered to the ground beneath them, trodden in the wet by all the passersby, who never look up and see Harry’s face, nine floors in the air.

When Louis arrives the next day, he brings unopened packets of glow-in-the-dark stars with him, stacks of A4 paper with printed Google images; of the planets and the Milky Way, of the Pillars of Creation and the Orion Nebula, of the Sombrero galaxy and of countless stars being born, living, dying, all in the most spectacular ways.

And when Louis plugs his iPod into his speakers and Train singing about tracing paths through constellations turns into Gregory and the Hawks turns into David Bowie (and Harry snorts so hard his cordial sprays orange out his nose), Harry thinks he might’ve been mistaken.

Harry thinks maybe Louis understands after all.

***

“Merry Christmas, Hazhead.”

Louis’ voice is a soft tickle in Harry’s ear, and he shrugs his shoulder against it, still wrapped in blankets up to his chin and half asleep.

“S’not Christmas yet; ‘m sleeping,” Harry slurs, eyes firmly clamped closed.

“Too bad.” Icy hands worm their way under Harry’s blanket, darting up and down his sides as he feels the dip of Louis climbing under to join him. “If you wanted a lie-in you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in front of the tree.”

“Not my fault I was so out of it after you gave me that blowjob,” Harry pouts, blinking blearily at the fairylights lavished generously around the room.

“I don’t remember any blowjobs last night,” Louis squirms his nose in behind Harry’s ear and for fuck’s sake, is any part of Louis _not_ bloody freezing this morning? “And if there had been I’m pretty sure it should’ve been the birthday boy on the receiving end.”

“Hmm,” Harry pretends to consider this, but he’s fairly certain that the grin spreading over his face on one ear to the other is giving his game away, “Maybe it was a premonition then; my psychic powers are feeling pretty strong today.”

“Oh, is that so?” Louis is trying to raise an eyebrow skeptic ally but it dissolves into laughter when Harry nods just a little too enthusiastically.

“Well, unfortunately for you, I am fucking _freezing_ ,” Louis presses bare toes like ice against the backs of Harry’s calves as if to prove his point, “and I absolutely _refuse_ to either remove this blanket or get onto that cold arse floor just to prove you’re psychic. At least not until that fire catches and heats the place up a bit.”

“But Louuu, it’s Christmas,” Harry twists his head around to fix Louis with the most pathetic expression he can muster.

“So it _is_ Christmas now, is it? Now that you want something?”

“Please?”

Louis sighs exaggeratedly, stretching up to breath hot in Harry’s ear again; this time Harry doesn’t squirm away.

“Well luckily for you, your body’s a bloody oven, so my hands have toasted up quite nicely.”

And it’s not very often that Louis plays the big spoon when they cuddle, but when he reaches over Harry’s hip and dips his hand down the front of Harry’s boxers, he can definitely see the advantages.

Louis scatters gentle kisses to the back of Harry’s neck as he wraps loose fingers around his cock, slowly teasing him to hardness, a little sluggish in the early morning.

Still, it isn’t long before Harry is breathing heavily, face turned into his pillow as Louis licks down the curve of his shoulder, nipping lightly at the tip, while his strokes grow firmer, faster, more maddening as his thumb rings around the head of Harry’s dick, rubs over the slit and slicks precome down his length.

Harry can feel Louis hard against him, his solid erection pulsing from Harry’s lower back down to the curve of his arse with each small thrust of Louis’ hips. Harry bites down on his lip, not wanting to come yet, but it’s never gotten any less hot, knowing that just providing this for Harry is enough to get Louis so turned on and restless.

When Harry does come, it’s with a surprised gasp as Louis bites down on the tattooed feather gracing Harry’s left shoulder blade, the one left behind by the bird on Louis’ forearm.

He’s shaking, but he rolls over as soon as he can, Louis still wiping his hand off on the inside of Harry’s boxers and startling at the movement. Harry pulls him in by the hair and plants a kiss square on Louis’ lips before he can dodge it, then buries his face in the familiar smell of musk and cinnamon all wrapped up as _home_ in the dark space between the back of Louis’ ear and his hairline.

He rolls the heel of his hand over Louis’ crotch, feeling the groan reverberating into Harry’s chest as much as hears it, and Louis’ coming before Harry can even get through the soft material of Louis’ sweatpants to touch him properly.

He kisses Harry’s collarbones, neck, jaw, murmuring a litany of _I love you, I_ love _you, Iloveyou_ as they both come down from the high.

 

It’s a little while later when Harry is watching the blinking lights above him in the quiet; steadfastly ignoring the light filtering through the curtains and spoiling the peaceful darkness, that Louis sneaks out from under their blanket to fetch something from under the tree.

There aren’t many presents beneath it, but it’s the most elaborate they’ve ever had, the kind of tree Harry has been telling Louis is an entirely necessary adornment ever since they first moved into their shitty little uni flat when Harry was twenty. It doesn’t _quite_ reach the top of the low ceiling room, but the branches are full and it has been decorated solely in red baubles and gold tinsel, plain lights interweaved throughout. Louis had grumbled the entire time, as Harry supervised his efforts, but he got his own back by declaring the rest of the lounge his domain and coating every possible surface with rainbow coloured flashing fairylights. Harry had tried to act indignant but he actually thinks they’re kind of wonderful.

Louis returns with a long card, Harry’s name scrawled across it, a doodled Christmas bauble dangling from the hook of the ‘y’. He passes it to Harry with a soft smile which warms Harry more than any fire or blanket ever could.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.”

He pulls apart the envelope carefully, partly out of habit, partly because Harry knows it drives Louis mad,  already sitting there, twitching with anticipation for Harry to just _open the goddamn thing already_.

Because Louis is actually nine years old, and not the twenty-eight year old man his physical form would suggest, of course a pile of glitter is dumped directly in Harry’s lap when he tips the envelope to retrieve the card. Except it isn’t a card at all.

He opens the flap, pulling out two pieces of thin card.

“ _Louis_ , I-”

“Paris, Harry.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Louis’ eyes are shimmering, “ There aren’t any dates on them yet, but they’re for us. To escape. When we can.”

Harry wants to kiss him. To lick into his mouth until he’s part of Louis and he never has to – never could - let go.

Instead, he reaches under the cushion and grasps around until his fingers connect with the small box he hid there the night before.

Louis unties the ribbon, genuine surprise on his face as he lifts the lid off of the long flat box.

“ _You are here_ ,” he reads the words from the engraved bracelet, quiet wonder in his tone. Harry doesn’t have to peek over Louis’ shoulder to see the arrow next to the script, pointing to the barely visibly dot in the silver.

 _A mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam_.

“When did you manage to get out and pick this up?” Louis queries, curious, but not quite hiding the way he has to clear his suddenly thick throat.

Harry puts on a carefully serious voice and holds his right palm to his chest.

“Zayn Malik is the best friend known to any man, especially this sorry soul, and I should be forever grateful to be graced with such loyalty and generosity.”

“Let me guess. You threatened to tell Liam about that time you and Zayn and Niall went to that show and that-”

There’s a knock on the front door, and they turn to see Liam and Zayn waving at them through the glass.

“Hey!” Louis singsongs, “It’s Li and Zee, come to see...us. Damn. Doesn’t quite work, does it?”

“Zee?” Harry asks Louis, who is still frowning slightly at the failure of his rhyme. “Are we American now, Lou?”

“Shh it was working okay – like Lee and Fi from Wirrawee?” Harry just stares at Louis blankly, no idea what drivel he’s started spouting. “The books about those Australian kids? In the middle of a war? Nothing? God, you’re uncultured.”

Harry snorts as Louis gestures to Zayn to let himself and Liam in.

“Zee!” Louis crows on their entry.

Zayn just looks between them.

“Are we American now?”

“ _It’s a matter of personal preference, oh my_ god _guys, shut up._ ”

“Um. Merry Christmas?” Liam closes the door behind him, sitting two small presents beneath the tree and studying Louis warily, as if determining whether choosing to spend Christmas with Harry and Louis over his parents was one of his poorer decisions.

“Merry Christmas, Liam. _Zayn_. Now excuse Louis, he’s going to go and check how things are going in the kitchen, _aren’t you_?” Harry says pointedly.

It mightn’t be without its... _quirks_ ; but Harry is pretty sure this is going to be his perfect Christmas.

Even if Louis does mutter on about ‘ _Zee or Zed, who fucking cares_ ’ on his way through the door.

***

Harry isn’t sure about this. How it got to this.

How a week ago Louis was promising Paris underneath the fairy lights, the lads singing Christmas carols in front of the little plastic Christmas tree wedged on the coffee table in the corner long after Harry became too tired to continue participating in the merriment.

How now Louis is sitting in the worn armchair next to Harry’s bed with his head in his hands and telling Harry he can’t do this anymore.

“I don’t understand.”

Because he doesn’t.

Louis’ eyes are red-rimmed and, Harry might not understand, might not be taking this well, but neither is Louis. It’s written in every hoarse word, etched in every tired crease beneath his blue (sea blue, water blue, tear blue) eyes.

“I thought I could do this. But I can’t.”

“But, Louis. I don’t understand. It’s supposed to be us. Always us.”

“I love you so much, you know?” Louis’ voice breaks at the end, but Harry doesn’t answer because he knows. He knows.

“And I thought I could do this, thought I could be here for you, that it’d be _us_ doing this. Together. But I can’t watch...” Louis takes a breath, Harry can see him physically attempting to pull himself together even as he himself is falling apart, in so many more ways than usual.

“I want to kiss you all the time. All over that stupid mouth of yours.  As often as I did when we were students and we were running late for class or Liam was banging to be let into the bathroom or Niall was telling us to get the _fuck_ out of his car because he isn’t a taxi and he’s not getting paid and he wants to drive home soon, preferably before we got stains all over his backseat. And I _can’t_. Because your immune system is non-existent and what if I was infectious and I didn’t know? Every goddamn time you steal a kiss and I’m not expecting it I want to lean in and make sure you still taste the same as I remember. But instead I spend the next week worrying that you’re going to spike a fever and it’ll all be _my fault_.”

“Louis. I’m sorry, I can-”

“Shit, Harry, you shouldn’t be _sorry_ , that you can’t kiss your goddamn boyfriend, partner, fuck it’s been seven years of our lives and I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you.”

“So don’t.” Harry’s voice is small, tiny, a whisper on the dry hospital air. “Don’t leave. Stay with me.”

“But what happens if you leave me anyway, Harry? What if we don’t beat this and you leave me and I’m only a shadow without you? I have to know I can do this. Because I’m terrified I can’t. I see your cheeky fucking grin and those sparkling bloody eyes and I think it’s impossible; that there’s no way for anyone to ever crush such a spirit. But then I watch you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation and I see your bones poking in places it shouldn’t; your unbelievable gorgeous eyes clouded by the drugs and so big in your head without your curls to balance them out. I walk down the corridor on the way back to our house at night and there’s another crash call on the oncology ward and I have to sprint back here and ask you if you want me to bring anything in tomorrow just to check that you’re still breathing, still here with me.”

“I don’t know that I can do this without you.”

They’re both crying silently now, but Harry lets out an audible sob when he reached for Louis’ hand and he flinches away.

“On your good days, you tell me you feel so well, so alive. But, Harry?” Louis makes eye contact for the first time in what feels like a year and Harry can’t meet it; his gaze drops down to Louis’ wrist, where his bracelet is caught in the last of the afternoon light outside, another world away.

“Harry, I feel so sick. All the time.”

Harry wants to make Louis’ hurt go away, can’t stand him in pain anymore than his own. But then he realizes that it’s him who’s making Louis hurt.

“I wish I wasn’t the one who’s done this to you. I want to punch me, a bit,” he chokes out.

It’s unfair.

“I’m so sorry, Haz,” Louis wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand as he stands, “I just can’t keep pretending that we’re fine when you’re fading away by degrees as I watch.”

Really fucking unfair.

“I know.”

“The boys are going to look after you; they’ll keep me updated but...”

“S’okay, Lou. I get it.”

“Bye, Harry.”

“Bye, Louis.”

Louis shuts the door softly behind him and in the silence Harry swears he can hear his heart shattering in the twilight silence.

_Happy new year to me._

It’s been four months since Harry was diagnosed with leukaemia.

And for the first time he feels like he’s dying.

***

“So how does this work then?”

Niall’s sitting cross legged at the foot of Harry’s bed, while Zayn and Liam share the armchair, Zayn on the arm closest to Harry, gripping his hand and watching the slow drip of saline flowing into Harry’s veins to counteract his dehydration when he thinks Harry can’t see.

It’s been a week since Harry last saw Louis, the longest time they’ve spent part since the fortnight Louis spent in the States with his family after he graduated.

It’s been one day since Harry started his third course of chemo. The first two had improved things, given Harry’s body a chance to start replenishing its stocks of blood cells, wiped out by both the cancer and the poisons they pump through him to kill the blast cells. But all the tests have shown that, slowly but surely, there are tiny numbers of blasts coming back with the rest of Harry’s cells, and if they don’t strike again now, the numbers will only increase until they begin to spill into other parts of his body.

The second day of a two week course, another drip suspended by his bed, this one running straight into the hole in his chest, for central and more permanent access, because he’s a mainstay at the hospital now. Two days and he feels a bit crap, but it’s not like the constant shitty nausea that seems to hit about a week from now. He vommed a few times yesterday afternoon, and it struck again about an hour into today’s bag of poison, but Zayn stayed through it all; stroked his back like he used to in the days when Harry couldn’t handle his alcohol, when they were teenagers and he felt all alone in the world.

Before Louis.

And he feels a little better now, Liam and Niall arriving bearing food Harry won’t eat, and some portable speakers for music that the evening nurse will scold them for when she arrives at half four.

“Yeah, go on Harry, how does this game work, then?” Liam repeats, and Zayn’s smiling too, encouraging, when Harry glances his way.

They’ve never played the game before, not properly; only ever gone along with a scenario when they’ve arrived in the middle – even that was rare, Christmas the only real example, and then the time no one batted an eyelid when they walked in to find Louis sunning himself in his boxers in front of a poster of Hawaii while it snowed outside (Harry could’ve hugged Niall that day, when he started stripping off to lay down next to him as Zayn pissed himself laughing into Liam’s neck).

It was always a Harry and Louis thing.

But now Louis isn’t coming around.

But the lads are. And they’re trying. So Harry should too; these are the times distractions are most important.

They might even help with the chemo too.

“Well,” Harry begins, “The first rule is that no one is allowed to say ‘good’. Or ‘fine’ or ‘okay’...”

***

“THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT!” Niall screams into his mic as they finish their final encore and the curtains shut in front of them, blocking out the blinding spotlights and plunging them into darkness.

“You know, I think they probably could hear us without you shouting _quite_ so loud, mate,” Zayn points out, rubbing his finger in his ear as if he might force the ringing from it.

“Well. Better safe than sorry, I reckon,” Liam pokes his tongue out at Zayn, and Harry knows he’s really just trying to get a rise out of Zayn by being contradictory. “We wouldn’t have gotten so far without our loyal, ever faithful fans.”

“Our legion of adoring fans,” Harry grins, “They’d follow their favourite international rock stars to the end of the earth.”

“So what else do we international superstars do, anyway?” Liam asks, curious.

“WHATEVER WE DAMN WELL WANT TO,” Niall leaps around them all.

They all just look at him as he attempts an aborted pirouette midair and almost crashes face first.

“I vote get drunk and trash the place,” Zayn offers.

“Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll, Zayn, really?” Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Are we really going to be that cliche?”

Zayn shrugs.

“Pizza and video games, then?” Niall suggests.

“Sounds perfect,” Liam says, and he and Harry share a small smile.

Their pizza arrives almost forty minutes later, delivered by a pizza boy who looks somewhat bewildered; Harry declares he must recognise their faces – Zayn says the guy probably kisses a poster of Harry’s face before he goes to sleep each night.

They sit playing Call of Duty and gorging on pizza for a few hours, laughing and bantering and Harry feels a bit tired but they’ve just played a sold-out concert so who wouldn’t be?

He’s not all that hungry, but still manages a couple slices of barbecue chicken pizza. Unfortunately, he figures it must’ve been a bit dodgy, because, although the others seem alright, Harry’s stomach refuses to settle, and he vomits it all up a little while later.

Liam gives him a hug in the bathroom, stroking Harry’s head as he leans over the porcelain, holding back a non-existent fringe.

“Fucking hate throwing up,” Harry mutters.

“I know.”

“I hate _this_.”

“I know,” Liam whispers, pressing a kiss to Harry’s scalp and passing him a glass of water before helping him back to his feet.

“How about one more song and then we call it a night,” Niall says when they get back.

They sing a song from their teenage years, about dancing and falling apart and that one line Zayn remembers from the music video because _one night can change everything_.

Niall’s leaping about again while Liam does the robot in the corner and Zayn takes his moves far too seriously.

And Harry collapses onto the nearest soft surface halfway through, hit by exhaustion and a coughing fit, so he watches his friends and definitely isn’t tearing up by the end.

Zayn offers to stay the night and share Harry’s bed, but Harry waves him off; pulling him and then Niall into a goodnight hug.

When it’s Liam’s turn he thinks he sees the same look of loss in his eyes as Harry feels in his chest so he whispers the words into his ear.

“We don’t sound right without him.”

“I know,” Liam murmurs right back, catching a tear from the corner of Harry’s eye with his thumb.

“I just want everything to _stop_.”

“I know.”

***

“You know,” Louis begins, “just because they got married and we haven’t _doesn’t_ mean they won.”

“Um.”

“This has been a conscious decision on our behalves to be happy and together and just because they’ve got it all signed on the dotted line...”

“Louis.”

“ _Yes_ , Harry.”

Louis tears his eyes from where Liam and Zayn are taking their first dance along to Carrie Underwood’s ‘Enchanted’, because _of course they are_ ; the song’s a decade old now but it was in that bloody corny Disney film and the level of cheese in Liam and Zayn’s relationship apparently knows no bounds.

“Let’s just go dance, yeah?”

Louis pretends to complain as Harry drags him to the dance floor to join the newlyweds and the other couples slowly filling the spaces, but when they find a spot Louis tugs him close and Harry knows he’s enjoying this as much as anyone.

“ _Let’s just admit we all wanna make it toooooo,_ ” Louis sings under his breath.

“Anyone tell you what a fine singing voice you have there, Mr Tomlinson?” Harry smirks into Louis’ hair.

He stumbles slightly when Louis manages to stand on his toe, but recovers without dragging anyone else down with them, which should probably be classed as an achievement.

“And I was just about to say what a fine figure you cut in a suit, too," Harry chides. Louis looks up and wriggles his eyebrows mischievously, but Harry continues before he can get a word in. “But watch your bloody feet or I’ll have to lift you onto my feet properly and twirl you round like the little princess you are.”

“I _always_ cut a flawless figure, excuse you,” Louis glares at him, then looks away. “And I’m not that tiny, either.”

The fact that those words are largely said into Harry’s chest doesn’t really help Louis’ cause.

“Aww, Lou,” Harry smacks a kiss to the middle of his forehead. “My perfect little pixie.”

Harry has to dodge the whack Louis directs at his shoulder, and it sends him knocking into Niall, who just so happens to be swinging Safaa around the dance floor in the exact same manner as Harry had just described to Louis, which of course has Harry wheezing with laughter while Louis stands with crossed arms waiting for him to be, “quite done, are you?”

“’m sorry, babe. You know I’m only teasing.” He opens his arms, and Louis meets him in the embrace immediately - even if he huffs as he does so - letting them return to their slow shuffle of a dance.

The music changes to another song, something else Harry vaguely recognises from their youth.

“So, will you please explain to me why there’s apparently a competition between us and Zayn and Liam?” Harry murmurs into Louis’ ear.

Louis looks up at him and shrugs.

“Not really a competition, is it though? I mean, we got ourselves sorted _well_ before they ever did and have lived together and it’s been _five years_...”

Harry’s eyebrows dip in concern. “Louis?”

“Are you mad I never asked you?”

“What? No?” Harry’s not even sure why this is a thing they’re discussing because, “I thought we talked about this ages ago?”

“Yeah, but when we did we’d only been together a couple of years and you were still a student and people change their mind, Harry.”

“Have you changed yours?”

“No but-”

“Good. Neither have I.” Harry smiles at him. “And do you still love me?”

“You know I do.”

And it’s silly but that small admission still warms something deep in Harry’s chest.

“Well then.” He presses a chaste kiss to Louis’ lips. “We have forever to change our mind about getting married. But for now, I’m quite happy right here.”

They dance for a while longer, only stopping when someone thinks it’s a good idea to start up some godawful dub step track that Harry _hopes_ is a joke rather than serious nostalgia. He _hopes_ that particular someone who chose it wasn’t Liam.

“You think we’d be horrible groomsmen if we left now?” Louis asks him, chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Isn’t it tradition for the best man to take a bridesmaid home and do terrible, _terrible_ things to them?”

“Does it count if we’re both best men?” Louis questions, striking a thoughtful pose.

“I’m not sure...it might if you were planning on getting lucky tonight.”

“Eh. I’d be going home to sex with you, regardless.”

“Cocky bastard.” Harry pinches Louis’ side underneath his suit jacket and smirks at the resulting squawk. “But you’ll be getting it a whole lot later if we stay and end up getting recruited for clean-up.”

“Decision made, then,” Louis grasps Harry’s hand and quickly pulls them through the crowds of people until they can see Liam and Zayn standing across the room, hip to hip, currently occupied by talking to Liam’s aunt. “We’re off.”

“You know,” Harry comments as they push the heavy doors of the reception venue open, releasing them into the brisk autumn night air. “There might actually be some benefits associated with Zayn and Liam having two weeks to calm down about trashing their car before they next see us.”

He looks pointedly at the job they’ve done. Numerous empty beer cans and condom balloons tail from the bumper in true festive style, along with the compulsory shaving foam letters screaming ‘ _JUST MARRIED’_ on the bonnet (and Louis’ addition of ‘ _GUESS WHO’S GETTING LAID TONIGHT’_ on the rear window).

“Ah, the benefits of being separated by a body of water,” Louis agrees.

“Is Niall still inside, though?” Harry jerks his head back towards the front doors.

“Uhh, yeah? Think so?” Louis frowns. “Oh.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Harry thinks of Niall having to take the full brunt of the blame for their handiwork. “Might be a good idea to avoid him for a couple days, too.”

“Your turn to have a horrific bout of diarrhoea that Niall really shouldn’t come near because we’d hate to make him crook too?” Louis grins beatifically.

“Ugh. Fine.” Harry grimaces. “But only because you went mental last time drawing those chicken pox over your _entire_ fucking body.”

For that, Louis pokes his tongue out at Harry, tossing him his keys.

“ _Commitment_ , Harry.”

“ _Crazy_ , Louis.”

“You love it.”

Harry shakes his head, knows exactly how ridiculous Louis is but, fuck-

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

For the admission, Harry gets a peck on the cheek and fond pat on his bum as Louis moves toward the passenger door.

“Exactly, which is _why_ you should get this crazy arse home; so you can fuck it into the mattress.”

Louis winks at him as he opens his car door. And Harry should be used to it by now, but he still pauses for a moment before he climbs into the driver’s seat and struggles with the seat belt - perhaps more than is strictly necessary - in an effort to get it on and get them home as quickly as possible.

They only bother to flip the bedside lamp on when they get home, dropping non-essential items like keys (and possibly a shoe) on the way past the kitchen counter.

“Do you think Li and Zayn are gonna be getting busy like this, tonight?” Louis asks between kisses as he works Harry’s tie undone and makes a start on his shirt buttons.

“You _really_ need to stop comparing us with them, Lou,” Harry insists, tossing Louis’ tie onto their pile of dirty laundry in the corner and dropping his hands to Louis’ belt, “But, yes, probably, what with it being their wedding night and all...wait. What do you mean by busy ‘like this’? What _else_ would they be up to?”

“Dunno, really. They’ve always taken so long getting round to things I figured they might only just be realising they have dicks.”

“Um.” Harry knows Louis’ just being a shit, but he stops unbuttoning Louis’ trousers for a moment because, he has to ask. “We shared a wall with them for over a year. What did you think they were up to?”

“...Very aggressive monopoly?”

“Jesus, you’re a moron.”

“A sexy moron.”

“Shut up.”

Harry pulls Louis back to slot their mouths together seamlessly, each knowing the exact order of push and pull between them that somehow never gets old like Harry thought it would, only hotter.

When they break apart to strip each other of their singlets, quickly dropping trousers and pants while they’re at it, Louis just manages to get out a “D’you think-”

“If you say one more word about Zayn or Liam I’ll...” Harry threatens weakly, his brain-scattered thoughts leaving him with no viable blackmail options right now.

“ _No_. No,” Louis grins, stripping back the covers of their bed and settling himself comfortably in the middle of the mattress. “I was thinking maybe we could try that thing again tonight?”

“And which ‘thing’ would that be?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as he crawls up from the foot of the bed until he’s leaning over Louis, hands braced either side of him on the headboard.

“The, uh,” Louis falters as Harry ducks down to nip along the stubble at his jaw, “the no-touching thing?”

Then again - out with the old, in with the new.

“Hm,” Harry hums, licking into Louis’ mouth before pressing a series of teasing kisses to his lips, “I suppose that’s a thing we could do.”

He looks down between them, at Louis’ thick and throbbing cock already standing to attention, almost hitting his stomach.

“If you’re sure?” Harry rocks back onto his knees and strokes a finger up Louis’ thigh, tantalisingly close to his balls.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis near hisses, and Harry smirks, rolling over to Louis’ side of the bed to grab the bottle of lube.

He’s tugged back into a bruising kiss when he straddles Louis again, and at this stage it’s actually hard to give Louis what he wants, because what _Harry_ wants right now is to grind his hips down to get some relief of his own. So he cuts it shorter than normal, breaking away to squeeze the lube into his palm, slicking it over his own cock for a few rough tugs as Louis watches hungrily, before he spreads Louis’ legs, kissing his right knee as he slides his index finger into him.

Louis doesn’t take much prep, likes to still feel a burn as Harry enters him, but Harry still fucks him with his fingers longer than normal, knowing he’ll need it if he wants to come without his cock being touched.

They kiss long and slow as Harry lines himself up, a kiss that feels more suited to the after or the before rather than the during when Harry can almost feel his heart pounding out of his chest with adrenaline and anticipation,  when Louis is whimpering at every small touch, fingers twitching like he’d give anything to stroke himself.

Louis’ a stubborn bastard, though, when he wants to be.

Harry pushes in long and smooth, a practiced movement, still earning a sharp intake from Louis, making Harry pause until Louis is scrabbling at his shoulders, breath hot in his ear as he tells him to _move, goddamnit_.

After that, Harry fucks him with an intensity that hasn’t seemed to fade at all over the years; still the same basic urge to give as much as he can to the gorgeous creature beneath him, to take all the pleasure Louis offers up in return.

He thrusts hard and fast and, when Louis moans particularly loudly, fisting his hands in Harry’s curls and _pulling_ , he makes sure to repeat that angle as often as possible.

When he comes, it’s to Louis clutching to his back, sheened with sweat, and the nonsense words of praise and love spilling from Louis’ mouth in an ecstatic prayer that Harry will never tire of.

It takes a moment for Harry’s mind to clear enough to move, but Louis is still hard and writhing beneath him, so Harry slips three fingers back into him, thrusting them relentlessly up against his prostate until Louis is begging, _so close, so close_.

Harry trails open-mouthed kisses up the length of Louis’ thigh, conscious of the way Louis hips jerk minutely the closer he gets to his neglected cock.

He reaches the top of Louis’ leg, ducks his head lower to lick a wide stripe along the bare skin of his perineum, stopping to work his tongue in alongside his fingers for a minute, mingling spit with the lube and come already there.

Louis is babbling now, unintelligible as his fingers claw and tangle in the sheets at his sides. His entire body is coated in sweat, a fine blush colouring beneath his tan, and his cock is so hard and leaking it must be painful.

Harry can’t help himself.

He leans up just enough, and licks the tip of his tongue against the very base of Louis’ cock, barely there.

It’s enough.

Louis comes so hard his hips arch off the bed, Harry’s fingers slipping free of him as he stripes come across his torso. When Harry tries to stroke him through it, he shudders hard enough at the excess sensation that Harry stops, instead plastering kisses over Louis’ torso until his eyes come back into focus.

“You cheated.”

His voice is hoarse, rung out, but Harry can still tell Louis is going to hold it against him, if only so that Harry will owe him some other form of sexual favour.

So he tries not to roll his eyes as he drags himself from bed to grab a dirty something from the heap.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Louis huffs but doesn’t say anything else on the matter.

Although, when Harry is almost asleep, he could swear he heard Louis mutter one final comment-

“I bet _Liam_ never cheats when Zayn asks him to do something.”

***

Harry shivers, grasping blindly with eyes still closed for a blanket to cover his freezing, exposed body. If only he can warm up, he can sleep again.

He's exhausted.

Instead, his searching fingers meet someone else's, their clammy hands wrapping around Harry's.

"No, Haz; you're already too hot, mate, we need to cool you down."

Zayn's voice is hovering somewhere close to Harry's head, but the lights are so bright when he tries to open his eyes to find them that he decides it's better to have this conversation in the safety of the darkness behind his eyelids.

"Fuckin' freezing," he complains, stubbornly tugging at his t-shirt, suspiciously damp, with his free hand to try and cover himself as best he can, legs curled up towards his chest.

"You're really not, love," Zayn soothes, and Harry's glad he can't see him right now, doesn't want to see the concern tight on his best mates' face. "The doctors, they say your white cells..."

His limbs feel restless, he can't get comfortable and his bones ache at every joint, at every movement, every place they touch the mattress. He tries to roll over, struggling with limbs that feel like lead, one arm still restrained by Zayn.

"Where's Lou?"

"He's not here, Harry; me and Li and Zayn are, though."

It's Niall, but Harry can't figure out where he is.

"I need Louis."

If he can just find Louis then everything will be fine. It will. Louis will save him.

Louis won't leave him behind.

He isn't aware he's babbling aloud until he hears Liam's soft hushes in his ear. There's the press of a cold flannel against his forehead and Harry flinches away from it, lurches in an attempt to sit up. If he can sit, he can stand. If he can stand he can go find Louis.

"Harry, lie _down_ ," Liam tries to lie him back into bed, but Harry won't. He can't.

" _No_. Louis-"

He's cut off by his own traitorous throat, dissolving him into coughs which wrack him until he's bent double and he can't breathe, can't _breathe_.

"Harry, you have to stop. You have to be calm." Zayn's voice is next to him again, and the coughs have subsided somewhat, but he still can't breathe, is gasping for air as he looks wildly around at the men around him, hands fluttering at their sides as though uncertain what to do.

"Deep breaths, you're going to make yourself pass out," he continues, and Harry wasn't aware how fast he was breathing, but it doesn't feel like he can stop, feels counterintuitive to slow down when he already feels like he can't catch enough air.

Zayn must realize he can't do it, is vaguely aware of him pressing a button on the remote at Harry's side.

"Harry look at me," Zayn orders, his serious voice on, and Harry forces his eyes to stay on Zayn's.

"Your white cells are so low they're- they're barely there anymore. And they aren't protecting you anymore. You've picked up an infection and-"

He stops, drops his head and clears his throat. Harry wants to reach out and tell him no, stop, it's okay. That _he's_ okay; he's fine he's good he's _good_. But Zayn's still got a death grip on his hand, and it suddenly seems so far to move his other arm over.

"You're crook, Harry. Proper crook." Niall picks up from Zayn, with a steely strength Harry rarely hears from him. "And you've gotta do what you're told so you get right for us again."

"S'okay. Lou will come. Lou'll know what to do." Harry slurs a bit, but the exercise, the coughing, it's made him so tired.

"Harry, he's not-"

"We'll get him," Niall cuts over Liam, voice firm. "Liam will get him."

"Good."

***

He's landed on the impossible planet.

The block of ice that burns hotter than anywhere survivable back on Earth.

Somehow, Harry can feel both; the frozen water which has him shuddering with cold one second, recoiling from the frigid surface, goosebumps rippling along his skin. The next, the scorch of heat is upon him, causing sweat to slick over the goosebumps, his lungs dry and gasping, craving air.

His suit protects him somewhat; he notices at times that it gives him oxygen - he hears crackly voices in his ear that this is what it is, the reason his breaths begin to come easier again.

Louis isn't next to him, and Harry worries where he is, that he must have become separated in the landing and might be far away, trying to find Harry in this unforgiving environment.

He has to find Louis, make sure he's alright, get him back because when he does, he'll be home. And then they can go back to the ship, where everything is stable, everything is safe.

They can survive the impossible and go back to their journeys among the stars.

But the path is difficult.

The gravity must be that much stronger than on Earth, because every step is a mission in itself. Forcing each of his legs to move another few centimetres, a metre, ten, is like running a marathon.

The terrain keeps shifting before him, and it's just another inexplicable thing about this planet; how solid ice seems to rearrange itself like sand dunes, forever changing and disorienting Harry.

He keeps losing passages of time.

He's not sure when, or how much, or how often, but he can feel his grip on reality and the ongoing hours and days slipping through his fingers, lost to the shadows.

The shadows.

Which Harry hadn't noticed at first, so bright was the reflections off the harsh angles of ice, glistening as it burns, melts, refreezes. And yet the shadows have been creeping closer, breeding in those stretches of time lost to the galaxy.

They don't bring peace like the silent black of space, a warm and comforting embrace as he and Louis hurtle through it.

These shadows are the whispering dark. They bring inaudible murmurs and echoing footsteps that have Harry constantly looking over his shoulder. They're the kind of inky black where the villain sheaths his dagger.

Harry calls for Louis.

There's never a response.

Only the clatter of the shadows on his heels.

He blinks and the shadows are rearing up at his sides.

Forcing him forward.

Terrified to stumble lest they catch him.

Blink.

Looming, craggy creatures of darkness surrounding him on all sides.

Closing in.

Harry can't breathe and the last patch of light is fading.

"Harry? I'm here. Please don't give up now."

***

It takes Harry a long time to figure out where he is.

Takes minutes, maybe hours of drifting in and out to place the hushed voices, the slap of feet on linoleum, the incessant beeping.

Takes even longer for him to gather the strength, to work out how to open his eyes.

When he does, there's blue staring back at him.

" _Harry_ ," Louis breathes it out like a quiet prayer; one familiar and worn against his lips.

Harry tries to reply, but is suddenly aware of a tube coming from his mouth, and he begins to strain, attempting to lift his arms enough to remove it.

"Hush; hush, Harry, love, it's okay," Louis soothes, reaching over and coming close so Harry can see him properly, one hand rubbing his arm while the other cups his jaw and strokes the line of his cheekbone.

"They had to put a tube down your throat to feed you for a bit, because you couldn't do it yourself."

Harry's eyes must widen obviously, or maybe Louis just knows what thoughts are fighting through the fog in his brain.

"You've been more or less out of it for about a fortnight now, babe. Fucking scared us, you did." Louis tries to smile, but Harry doesn't miss the way his lips tremble.

"We'll ask the nurse later on about getting rid of it, yeah?" Louis soldiers on, "But you've got to leave them for now. The nasal prongs too."

This time, Harry does reach up and manages to feel the fine tubes tucked behind his ears, curling up to sit just inside his nostrils. Again, Louis knows Harry's question before he has to ask.

"It was your lungs that were the big problem."

This time Louis isn't looking at him, instead picking at tiny pieces of fluff caught on Harry's blanket.

"The chemo already had you neutropenic, your immune system totally shot between that and the...you got pneumonia." A pause. "And even though they threw all the antibiotics at you, you became septic, and the infection got worse and your fever was through the fucking _roof_."

He takes Harry's hand and Harry squeezes as tight as he can muster the strength for.

"They had to put you on a ventilator for a bit?" Louis says it like a question, but Harry can't remember a thing. Only a dream where he was lost on some alien landscape and he couldn't find Louis. "Zayn’s family came – still here, actually; they even tried finding Gemma. But Li, he said that, before all that, you were delirious. With your fever. And you'd keep calling out for me. Saying I'd fix everything. And then you got worse, and you weren't saying anything because you couldn't, and the doctors had been telling Zayn that there was a chance you wouldn't make it, that if you were going to you needed to _fight_ and you just seemed like you'd _stopped_."

The hospital room has gone a bit blurry, and Harry can't remember the last time he cried.

"When I arrived you were hooked up to so many tubes, and the ventilator, and everyone looked so serious. And you. You looked so tiny and frail and I hadn't been there to protect you. Like I promised you I would."

Louis' voice is rasping and his eyes have deep shadows like bruises encircling them. Harry wonders when he last slept.

"You kept saying that when I got here I'd fix it. You had all this faith in me and I let you down. I waited so long. It was almost _too_ long."

Harry squeezes Louis' fingers again, making him look up at Harry so he could see him shake his head, could see in his eyes how angry he is that Louis would ever think that he let him down.

"I couldn't stay away, though. Not from you. Because you know what I realized, staying away from you?"

When Harry shakes his head this time, it's softer, slow.

"I realized that I don't want you leaving me your stardust."

There are tears running down Louis' face, but he's smiling at Harry with all the light it takes to fight back the shadows.

"I just want you."

***

"Louis."

"Harry."

"Louis."

"You know I'll do this all day, right?"

Harry sighs, refusing to acknowledge the sun lighting his eyelids red, or the fingers tickling at his feet through the layers of blankets.

"What do I always say?"

"An awful lot of things."

Harry lobs a pillow at him, noting the slightly hollow sound of impact, indicating the door suffered his wrath rather than the much duller, and likely to retaliate, target.

" _Sleep-time is sacred_ ," he groans, flipping his pillow to find the coveted cool side.

The mattress emits a tired _oof_ as Louis flops down next to him on his stomach.

"Shoes, Lou."

"Your eyes are closed, you can't prove anything."

"I know _you_."

"Fine."

Harry smiles into the duvet as he hears the drop of one worn shoe and then the other falling to the floor.

"But seriously, babe," Louis squeezes his sleep-warm arm, "you've been sleeping a lot lately; it's after two."

"It's Saturday, it's the weekend, it's allowed." When Harry glances over, Louis' frowning at him.

"Not just the weekend. You've been totally wiped after work, even on your half days. For over a fortnight, now."

"Don't stress; please, Lou," Harry rubs the hand gripping his arm comfortingly; smiles. "I think I've just got the flu or something, some virus that's got me a bit wiped, is all. I'll be right soon."

He's sure that's all it is; it will be winter soon, after all. The dark and endlessly dreary days in London are almost upon them (and that's not fair, because it's still barely autumn and the sun streaming through their window is almost warm today).

Harry hasn't been feeling right for maybe a month, not even that - he was fine at Liam's birthday do, he's sure. Feeling fine first thing, but consistently more exhausted by the most pathetic of exertion; the past couple of days he's near collapsed into his seats on the Tube, barely a hundred metres from their door. Headaches that persist, regardless of the painkillers he swallows dry from the bathroom cabinet, every night. His knees have been aching in ways they haven't since he tried taking up squash back in sixth form. He thought he was managing, though. Whatever bug he has must be about on its way out by now.

But that Louis has picked up on it, and for as long as he mentioned, is maybe a sign it's getting worse. As melodramatic as Louis gets whenever he has so much as a sniffle, begging for attention and comfort food, Harry has always preferred to just get on with it and wait for it to piss off; and usually that means Louis is entirely oblivious.

Louis disentangles his hand from Harry's, lifts it to run it through his curls, gently combing in a way Harry knows will only lead to a complete birds nest whenever he ends up moving.

"You sure?"

"Positive," he reassures, tugging Louis' hand down so he can press a kiss to his palm.

"Promise you'll go to the doctor this week if you're still not coming right by tomorrow night?" Louis is a stubborn prick sometimes, but Harry thinks he probably does have a point this time.

"Pinky swear, even," he grins, hooking his little finger around Louis', and drawing Louis close for a proper snog this time.

Louis smiles against Harry's lips.

"Good."

***

Visiting the doctor lead to visiting the hospital.

Led to test, and then another.

Each face they saw grimmer than the last.

Led to a diagnosis.

 _Acute myeloid leukaemia_.

One step followed by another followed by another leading to a place Harry hadn't realized existed. Not for him.

He'd always thought he was the one who got to survive.

Now he's not so sure.

They say he has good odds, that his test results aren't great, but they're okay. For now. As long as they get started straight away with treatment. Because it's right there in the name; acute. Fast moving. Immediate.

The doctors let Louis take him home to pack a bag, but that's it.

Louis gets frantic when he's nervous; it shows now, as he rushes around the house picking up bits and pieces Harry is sure he won't need in a hospital room, but is maybe a little piece of home which, in Louis' mind, is essential.

When he's done, Louis finds him sitting in their bedroom, staring at the electric clippers Harry had inherited from his father, never to use.

"Do you think it'll be easier?" he asks, not bothering to look up at Louis in the doorway.

"Do you?"

Louis sits the overnight bag down by the door frame and inches quietly towards the bed, like Harry's a particularly frightened bird.

"I don't...I don't know if I could deal with it falling out in big clumps," he says to the crumpled duvet. "It feels like maybe...this way I have some control?"

Harry doesn't realize that he's crying until Louis has him wrapped in his arms and he feels the scratchy wool beneath his cheek grow damp.

"Would you do it for me?" he mumbles into Louis' jersey when he can speak again.

Louis' eyes might be red rimmed too when he pulls back, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

"Of course, love."

Harry closes his eyes while the clippers whir above him, hums a tune under his breath as the curls fall to the towels encircling his chair.

"Do you want me to shave my head, too?" Louis asks, offhand, part way through.

Harry feels such a swell of love for this man whose hands tremor as they hold Harry's head this way and that, running fingertips over every short and scratchy inch of scalp in a tender caress as he works. The man who's always been atrociously vain of his own head of hair, and yet is volunteering to undergo the same treatment as Harry, for the simple act of solidarity.

"No," Harry smiles, only a little wobbly this time, "I'd rather know that you're still here, are still the same. I think it might help me forget."

He returns to humming, that silly tune he remembers dancing to two years ago, Louis in his arms, talking about forever.

 _Sometimes we reach what's real just by making believe_.

Maybe they can wish away death itself if they just imagine hard enough.

"Do I still look like your Haz?" Harry asks when it's done.

Louis just looks at him as though he's asked what colour the sky is.

"Silly boy," Louis crouches before him, touches lips to lips, chaste and filled with love. "You'll always be my Haz."

Maybe.

***

"It's beautiful," Harry whispers, almost scared to talk any louder in case the scene before him disappears.

"You like it then?" Louis' smile is evident in his voice, face pressed to the side of Harry's head as he wraps his arms around him from behind, Harry sitting in the 'v' of his legs.

"I love it," Harry twists his head to kiss a sloppy thank you to Louis' cheek.

Louis had turned up earlier, made him close his eyes, and then lead Harry on a merry chase until he saw fit for Harry to see his surprise.

A garden.

Pansies and hydrangeas scattered around the two bushes of red and white roses. Orchids and tulips.

And forget-me-nots.

Oh so many forget-me-nots.

A kaleidoscope of beauty and good intentions and love.

For Harry.

It might barely be February, but the grass is miraculously dry, or as good as once they lay down a blanket. The air still crisp, but in a refreshing way rather than one which has Harry reaching for his jacket.

"Always wanted a garden," he confides, twirling a stray leaf between his fingers by its stem.

Louis chuckles. "Not really a secret, Haz. 'S why I made you one."

"Never figured you for a green thumb, after how thoroughly you destroyed those window boxes at the old flat." Harry smirks, tickling Louis in that one spot behind his knee that he _hates_.

"Stop, stop, _stop_ ," Louis protests, slapping ineffectually at Harry's arms. "A public menace, you are. But, okay, I maybe had a helping hand."

"Liam?"

"Nah, Jesy."

"Who?"

"Girl Niall's been seeing; works at a flower shop."

Harry frowns, sure he'd remember that conversation. "Oh. Haven't heard about her."

"I don't think it's that serious just yet," Louis attempts to brush it off.

"Must be kinda if you've met her." He still feels as though he's been left out of the loop. Harry has always loved interrogating Niall about his new girlfriends, and dumping Niall in countless horrific stories when he gets introduced.

"Nah," Louis insists, pulling Harry towards him so his back curves against Louis' chest, warm and comfortable. "It was only 'cause I mentioned this. And you know Niall; he's likely to get distracted by something sparkly or, I dunno, a cardboard box. He's basically a kitten."

This makes Harry laugh, even if it's more of a wheeze; must be all that pollen in the air.

"I suppose you might be right, there. He certainly is bouncy."

"Next time maybe try forcing him to focus on you by dangling some string in his face."

"A gummy snake?"

"Perfect."

Louis sings a short tune, one that has Harry smiling, even as he feels curiously sad, heavy in his chest.

"Happy birthday, Harry."

Twenty-seven years old.

They stay in the garden until it gets dark and the stars wink to life above them.

"I could stay here forever," Harry muses.

Louis hums low in his ear, stroking his thumbs over Harry's stomach through his t-shirt.

"Wouldn't be the worst thing."

"Not at all."

***

Zayn barges into Harry's bedroom without any pretence of knocking, hands on hips.

"Right. So. Liam's coming over this afternoon to watch the footy and work on our papers; make sure you've at least got some pants on, will you?" It's not so much a request as a command. "Hey, Lou."

"Zayn." Louis returns with a grin.

It's not as though Zayn had caught them at an awkward time - they were only curled up under the duvet watching reruns of 'The Nanny' (fine, they were naked, but there was nothing suspicious going on under the blankets) - still, it's the principle of the matter.

"Have you no sense of personal privacy?" Harry demands. "We could've been busy in here!"

"Nope. Not since you walked in on me and Nancy Harwick making out in fifth form and, rather than leaving, started asking me how worried you should be if you swallowed a coin while playing Save the god damn Queen." Okay, fair point, Harry allows. "And no, you couldn't have, because trust me when I say I would've known _before_ I left the kitchen if you two were up to something."

Oops.

"Firstly, in my defense, I was drunk and very inexperienced and very, _genuinely_ concerned that I might've aspirated it and was going to die," Harry argues. "And secondly - back to the more important issue - why do you insist on controlling my nakedness?"

Zayn rolls his eyes and Harry can hear Louis sniggering behind him.

" _Because_ not all of us are as 'liberated' as you," Zayn actually does the finger quotations as he says it, "and there is no situation in which he needs to see your unclothed cock."

"I'm offended."

"Don't be," Louis kisses his shoulder, "It's a very pretty cock."

Zayn shakes his head and begins to pull the door shut behind him as he leaves.

"Is this what the real problem is, Zayn?" Harry yells to make sure he can be heard through the closed door, "Afraid he'll want mine instead of yours?"

" _Clothes_ , Harry."

He turns back to Louis, snuggling back into the warmth of his chest.

"Almost a little sad how I can barely get a rise out of him anymore." Louis barks out a laugh and Harry, realizing the pun which was a completely unintentional for once, flicks the bare skin of his stomach in response.

"I take it Zayn's not a stranger to your affinity for being nude," Louis notes.

Harry shrugs. "Probably seen my cock more than you have." They've only been seeing each other for a bit over a month, but that's still a fairly significant number of times.

"I'm putting it out there; I'm pretty sure this is what jealousy feels like."

"Oh hush," Harry smacks a kiss to the script tattooed to Louis' chest. "Don't be; its sheer years of exposure, and I was a bit of a nightmare there for a while."

A month is not a length of time in which you divulge all of your secrets, reveal all the skeletons folded away neatly in your closet. And Louis knows just enough to want to ask for more here - Harry can feel his chest expand, a deep breath but then faltering - but not enough to have the courage for the follow through.

"It was fifth form, maybe a month after the coin incident, when my parents died." Harry says quietly, counting the hairs trailing down from Louis' belly button because it's easier if he can't see Louis' expression. "Car crash. I was sixteen. They were going to pick Gemma up from the train station. I'd refused to go with them."

Louis is carefully silent, rubbing circles into Harry's shoulder and waiting for him to continue.

"Gemma dropped out of uni for a bit, so that she could be my guardian or whatever; we didn't really have any other family. She was only nineteen, though, and she'd lost her parents too." Harry will forever make excuses for her sister, will always believe it wasn't, isn't her fault.

"We both went a bit off the rails; I got suspended a couple times for fighting, or simply never showing up. Difference was that I had Zayn - best mate since primary school - and he stopped me getting in too much trouble. His parents looked after me, would've looked after Gem too, but she didn't seem to want it. They're probably the only reason I got my shit together enough to make it to uni, really. And when me and Zayn came here to study, Gemma was supposed to go back, too. But I guess she was in too deep by then? She went AWOL. I've heard from her maybe twice since I started uni?” Everything seems to come out as questions, half phrases; after three years, Harry still doesn’t know how to speak about this with any degree of eloquence.

“We presume its drugs. There's money, you know? From our parents? We each were allowed access when we turned eighteen, so Gemma's always had it; apparently her share is still getting used, so we think she's still around, somewhere. But."

He falls silent. He doesn't know how much Louis had put together before now, but it can't have been everything. And his life sounds like such a mess, spread out like this.

Enough to scare someone off.

" _Harry_." Louis kisses his scalp through his curls, and his voice is infused with such emotion that it sparks the tears to the corners of Harry's eyes that he'd been withholding up 'til now.

"I'm sorry that happened to you. All of it," he whispers, so sincere Harry thinks then and there that maybe he loves him. "I don't think I could keep functioning if it happened to me."

"You could," Harry assures him, looking up at Louis finally, a small smile to let him know he's okay, because he is; this is just something that's a part of him now. "You have to and. My parents weren't even forty when they died; thirty-eight and thirty-nine. God knows how long Gemma will last if she doesn't stop. I'm gonna be the one who survives - for them. Because that's what my parents wanted for me."

"You'll live to a hundred and fifty, with the amount of good karma you've got coming your way," Louis promises.

"You reckon?"

"I'll eat my hat if I don't get to see you spitting all over the cake trying to blow out the candles."

And he says it with so much conviction that Harry believes him.

***

"No more chemo?" Louis asks, disbelieving.

"No, I'm sorry, but it's too risky," Carol, Harry's main oncologist, explains, "Because you got so ill, with the neutropenic sepsis last time, Harry, we don't want to put you through it again; we're lucky you pulled through last time."

"So we just _wait_?" Harry wants to tell Louis to stop getting angry, that Carol is only doing her job and, quite frankly, he's not sure he wants to go through chemo again, either.

"There's one or two other drugs we can consider trying, although they're not as reliable as what we've already used. We still have you on the bone marrow transplant list, we just haven't found any matches yet; but as long as we don't discover any metastases, you'll stay on there, and you’re currently very high on the list. We can also give you more radiotherapy if you want it, Harry, it's up to you. But I can tell you now, it's going to be palliative treatment - treating your pain and your symptoms - rather than curative at this stage."

They're all looking at him; Louis, Carol, Carol's horde of doctors and students who trail after her like ducklings.

The thing is, Harry is just _so_ tired. Weary, exhausted - those words just don't even cover it anymore. Everything is an effort, and it's getting harder to see a way out which leaves him in one piece.

Everyone knows it - Harry knew, when they helped Louis fill his room with fake flowers, fabric and plastic that couldn't harm him, a birthday present chosen because they weren't sure he'd make it to receive flowers on Valentine's Day - but he doesn't think they know it the same way he does.

He wonders sometimes if it wouldn't just be easier to give up the fight now, no more tests, no more drugs, just some final peace and the hope that karma treats him better next time.

But it's Louis that he focuses on, of all the faces surrounding him.

Louis, with his earnest features, drawn desperate with stress and love and concern.

Louis who promised he'd never leave, could never leave again.

Louis.

He turns his head minutely back to Carol.

"We keep fighting."

***

“We did pretty goddamn brilliantly, Lou,” Harry sighs, content, would close his eyes if it didn’t mean shutting out all that is before them.

“We did,” Louis agrees, eyes bright and shining as they take in everything they can call theirs.

Everything the light touches, is ours, Harry distantly remembers from the rose-tinted memories of childhood. Here, he feels a little like a king.

They recline on solid wooden deck chairs, sun warming weary limbs; tanned from months under the summer sun.

Two small children run rampant across the garden, barefoot and giggling as they play a game to which only they know the rules. The older, Emma, seems to be changing them conveniently to suit herself, but Zach doesn’t seem bothered, and Louis hasn’t made any move to warn her, to make her play fair and give her little brother a chance to win too. Seems happy to simply observe for now, their golden children.

Zayn and Liam aren’t far off; they disappeared to the corner store for ice cream, Harry thinks, disgusted that he and Louis dare be out of supply on such a scorcher of a day. Harry would have protested but, really, his throat feels parched, and maybe that particular treat would soothe the burn rather wonderfully. And Niall is due any minute now, or so Louis keeps assuring him.

That’s good, Harry tells himself, their midsummer barbecue would be incomplete without all of their best mates beside him.

Harry feels Louis’ hand tuck into his own, squeezing tight; a reassurance, a promise.

“I’m right here, babe,” Louis whispers fiercely, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Of course you’re not,” Harry shakes his head at his forever boy, “You’re my Louis.”

They sit for a long pause, the heat making Harry feel incredibly tired; maybe this is what getting old feels like, he ponders.

“We deserve this, don’t we, Lou?” Another pause. “Our happy ending?”

Louis takes his time to respond, and Harry understands; he never thought they’d be this lucky either.

“We do.”

Louis’ voice cracks on the second word and Harry thinks he’s lucky to have fallen for someone with so much love in his heart.

Harry closes his eyes, because they’re heavy, and because when you’re a respectable adult you’re allowed to have siestas on a Saturday afternoon.

He’s smiling, just a little, because you have to embrace joy when you’ve found it.

Harry found it in a boy with blue eyes and a sparkling soul.

***

“Good.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> please don't hate me!  
> (especially for the vaguely inception-style ending...)
> 
> comments = love and (once again) if you look at the other 'part' of this series you'll find the accompanying playlist


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